Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

Her hand flew to her mouth to cover a giggle, as one of the birds, once again waited until the last minute before flying over the fence, just out of reach of Alex’s grasping hand. All he has to do now is learn how to give in gracefully, she decided, listening to him cursing the bird.

  ‘Alex…don’t you dare! Leave the poor thing alone,’ she yelled, when he bent down to pick up a stone. ‘Anyway…it’s time for you to get ready for bed…so go and say goodnight to your father and then come in for a wash.’

  As she was about to close the window, her ears pricked up on hearing the drum of horse’s hooves approaching from down the lane. Drying her hands on her apron, she walked towards the front of the house. Opening the door, she stared up the track, but with the haze in the air and the dust being thrown by the horse and buggy, it was impossible to tell who it was.

  Alex sidled up to her, placing his arm around her waist.

  ‘Who’s coming, mother?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet…but you go in and get washed and ready for bed. I’ll come up in a minute and read you a story.’

  When the approaching horse and buggy finally slowed to a walk, Margaret was taken aback.

  Driving the rig, and wearing what appeared to be some kind of cowboy hat, was Cameron, sporting a huge grin across his face. It had been five and a half years since they had last seen him, and in all that time they’d not heard from him once. So, at that moment, Margaret was unsure whether to be happy or annoyed with his sudden appearance.

  After coming to a halt, Cameron tied off the reins. Then, gazing at his sister and noticing the blank look on her face, he remained seated, unsure of what to do next. Maybe it had been presumptuous of him to assume their relationship would be the same as when he’d left? But, he was here now. Making up his mind, he jumped down from the rig; while at the same time, Margaret hesitantly began to descend the front steps.

  To Margaret, time seemed to stand still. But then, like water bursting through the breach in a dam, tears flowed down her face and she ran the last few steps to greet him.

  Cameron had barely had a chance to take a step forward, when his sister threw her arms around him and nestled her tear-soaked face against his shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Maggie…my goodness...is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh, Cameron…we’ve missed you so much. Where have you been? What have you

  been doing? What…’

  ‘Hey…slow down. I’ve got a lot to tell you…that is, if I’m still welcome.’

  ‘Don’t be so foolish, of course you are.’

  ‘Listen, before we go any further...is Alex going to know who I am?’

  ‘Of course he is. We told him he had an uncle called Cameron…and that one day he might get to see him.’

  The two of them walked towards the house arm-in-arm, and after opening the front door, Margaret shouted up the stairs.

  ‘Alex! Come down here and meet your uncle Cameron.’

  ‘Wow,’ Alex exclaimed, bounding down the stairs. ‘Are you a real cowboy?’

  ‘Ah sure am young fella’,’ replied Cameron, with his best western drawl.

  Margaret grinned, digging Cameron in the ribs.

  ‘Listen, Cameron...John’s out in the barn. Why don’t you go out and surprise him, while I get Alex ready for bed. Then you can come up, and maybe tell him a story while I’m out finishing the chores.’

  The men sounded as though they were on their second or third drink by the time Margaret joined them in the kitchen. Vanishing for a moment into the larder, she soon re-appeared carrying a huge ham on a wooden platter; and by the end of two further trips, the makings of a feast adorned the large kitchen table. Once Margaret was settled, John disappeared from the room, returning a few minutes later with four more bottles of cider.

  ‘Just one thing I need to ask before we start,’ said Cameron, raising a finger to emphasise the point. ‘Has anyone been around here asking any awkward questions during the last five years?’

  Having been reassured by two shaking heads, Cameron visibly relaxed.

  In the beginning, Cameron’s only interest was in the progress of ‘little Alex’. He laughed as they regaled him with some of Alex’s antics, and was pleased to hear that his son was starting school at the end of the summer. At times during the evening, Cameron’s eyes took on a far-away look, and had it not been for John’s intervention with a timely quip – and top-up of his glass – Margaret feared the emotion of the past might well have returned.

  Eventually, the time came for Cameron to tell his story; and what he chronicled was so unlike their predictable, almost boring lifestyle, that it kept Margaret and John transfixed until the small hours of the morning.

  His narration began with an account of the dark days after the funeral, and even though John and Margaret suspected that they knew about his escapades in Montreal, they never let on.

  ‘After I left you for the last time, I went back to Montreal, and then the following day…’

  He had left the city by train, with the intention of travelling to Texas. The first leg to Detroit, via Toronto, had gone as planned. But he soon discovered that America’s fledgling rail network still had a lot to learn. The onward service had only gone a further two hundred miles when they became stranded by a severe winter storm and had been left to fend for themselves for nearly thirty hours. Teams of horses pulling sleighs loaded with food, blankets and men to clear the tracks, finally reached them, and after a further twenty-four hours, they were underway again.

  The following night, as he slept a thief stole his canvass travelling bag containing most of his money. The robber had waited until the train had begun to pull away from the station at Kansas City, hoping Cameron would not wake until it was much too late. However, when the train jerked during its acceleration, he was jolted from his slumber, and then noticing the theft, leapt from the slowly moving train.

  Later that evening, he sat in a local saloon consoling himself with a whisky.

  ‘You’re new in town.’

  ‘Well, to be honest…until half an hour ago…I no had any intention of being here,’ Cameron replied, to the man now sitting on the stool beside him.

  Soon, the two struck up a conversation, and after a few more rounds of the “water of life”, Cameron told his new-found, Irish drinking partner about his earlier escapades on the train.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ muttered Cameron sometime later, when who should wander into the bar but a very happy looking vagrant, carrying an all too familiar dark canvass holdall.

  With Sean’s support, he “thanked” the man for “finding” his bag, while at the same time suggested he might like to leave town – quickly!

  It was almost daylight by the time the two buddies staggered back to Sean’s rented accommodation, where Cameron collapsed for ‘just the night’.

  During the time Cameron stayed in that wild, mid-western town, he and Sean became the best of friends. Although he hadn’t planned on staying in Kansas City for longer than was necessary to plan out his future, the Great Sioux War broke out. And when a few months later, Sitting Bull defeated the seventh cavalry at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Cameron conceded that further westward travel might be a little unwise.

  ‘When I was there, Kansas City was a boomtown. It had sprung up at the junction of the Kansas and Missouri rivers, and was the last major supply station for pioneers setting off on the Santa Fe Trail to New Mexico, or heading north to connect with the Oregon Trail to the Pacific North West. Year after year thousands arrived…travelling by train from the east or paddle steamer up the Mississippi. Sean talked me into learning to ride. ‘After all,’ as he said to me more than once while we sat propping up the bar after work, ‘you’ll not be able to get a job anywhere west of here if you can’t handle a horse’. And you know something, Maggie? That was the smartest thing I’ve done since leaving Scotland.’

  ‘So is that where you’ve been since you left?’

  ‘No. I worked for Sean in his hardware store until f
inally, in the spring of 1877, the Indians surrendered. For the next three years I just kept on the move, picking up work wherever I could. Usually, in the spring I’d help round up cattle and brand the new calves, while in the fall I’d join huge cattle drives, moving the steers down off the high ground for the winter, or pushing them to the railhead to be taken back east to be slaughtered. I never stayed at any one ranch, or in any one area, for more than a season. And in that way I hoped to remain pretty well anonymous and completely forgettable.’

  ‘So what’s changed? Why have you come back?’

  ‘Well…I never planned on spending my life in the U.S.A. I still think Canada is where I’d like to settle down. And before you ask…no…I don’t plan on settling in this area, because that letter Mary sent to Annie could one day still bring trouble. One thing I did decide though is that farming isn’t for me. Much as I appreciate what you two did for us, I think, at the time, I was probably doing it more for Mary…you know…to make up for what I’d done to her.’

  ‘So…what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Well…I’ve been reading that they’re planning to build a railroad all the way across Canada. So, I’m going to head up to Montreal and try to find some part time work, just to tide me over until this new railway company gets going.’

  Cameron didn’t get much sleep that night, and the next morning he was up early.

  ‘Listen…before I go, I just want you to know that what I said five years ago still stands. I must admit, there have been moments in the last twenty-four hours when I almost broke down and risked telling Alex the truth. But when I looked at how happy you three are…and remembered how dangerous it could be…especially for you and Alex… I knew I mustn’t do it. I’ll always love you…and there’s no need for Alex to know anything until he’s a man. John, you asked what’s changed. Well…it’s taken me five years to get over Mary. And when I leave here, I’m going over to Clarenceville to make my peace before moving on. I’ll let you know how I am from time to time, but for your sake and Alex’s, I won’t tell you where I am.’

  Cameron shook John’s hand, before giving his sister a long and tender hug.

  ‘When Alex gets up, just tell him his uncle’s sorry he missed him this morning… oh, and I got this for him,’ Cameron said, handing Margaret a small, white Stetson.

  Cameron didn’t look back as he strode from the house, nor did he turn or wave when, with the crack of a whip, he hastened away towards the final moment of his previous life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The grass was long and still damp with the summer’s morning dew. Cameron knelt beside Mary’s grave, arranging a posy of summer flowers against the cold granite headstone. He still felt the guilt of what he had put her through, but was sure that, after five years of mourning, she would have forgiven him.

  ‘There will always be a place for you in my heart, Mary,’ he whispered, before leaning forward and placing his lips against her name.

  Later that day, he drove up to a stable yard on the south side of the St. Lawrence River. It was here, just off the end of the Victoria Bridge, he had hired the horse and buggy. Lugging his one large duffle bag, and under the pretence that he had to get to a meeting in the city, he quickly strode away from Mr Ducard. Although the owner of the yard was a pleasant enough fellow, he seemed determined to tell Cameron the history of the area: starting with how many people had been shot and killed by troops trying to disperse the striking workers building the locks, ‘over der at Lachine’; to how many had died building Montreal’s first bridge over the St. Lawrence River. Luckily for Cameron, the streetcar had just arrived from over the bridge, and was presently going around the loop in preparation for its return journey to the city. Jumping on board, he settled into a seat in the almost empty car for the one-hour ride into the centre of the city.

  Picking up a newspaper kindly left behind by the previous occupant, he turned to the employment pages. At one time, he had considered becoming a lumberjack to earn enough money to set up a cattle ranch. But the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d realised that working in mosquito-infested forests seven days a week, while at the same time living in a tent with three other misfits, was not really the life he craved. However, one day he heard about the plans to build a new railway stretching from one side of Canada to the other; and now that he’d established that no one had been making any enquiries about his whereabouts, he felt it might well be safe enough to contemplate living in Canada.

  Cameron was whistling to himself as he strolled down Tupper Street on his way to the docks and his temporary job at Joe Beef’s Tavern. The bar was owned by a big Irishman called Charles McKiernan – an ex quartermaster with the British Army. He proudly advertised that he ‘refused service to no one’ and, strangely for an Irishman, was an atheist, so put up with ‘no religious squabbles’ in his establishment. The beer was cheap and the food even cheaper; while entertainment was provided by his menagerie of animals, including a live black bear kept in a cage in the saloon. Every night there was at least one fracas with glasses flying along with the fists, so those of a weaker constitution did not remain in employment very long. Cameron had only stayed there as long as he had because the turnover of bar staff was so high, and nobody really got to know, or care, about anybody else.

  Every day on his way home, he stopped in at the local general store to buy the Montreal Gazette. He was now convinced that his best chance of a decent life was to return to what he knew, so spent hours each day scanning the paper for possible opportunities.

  In parliament, the acrimonious debate about the new railway had been going on for months, and barely a day passed without reports concerning arguments lasting long into the night.

  Finally, on a cold February morning, the headline he’d been waiting for was displayed from every news stand.

  * * *

  CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY INCORPORATED!

  Last night at midnight, 16th February 1881, a final agreement was

  reached between all parties. A new company, hereafter known as

  the C.P.R., has been formed to connect Canada from coast to coast.

  * * *

  The story went on to say that the Canadian Pacific Railway intended to buy up all the current railway companies operating services in Quebec and Ontario, and amalgamate them with the C.P.R. The rest of the line was to be newly built, starting in Winnipeg and then proceeding from there in both directions.

  That was all Cameron needed to know. So after his shift that day, he hurried home, packing his few belongings into his well-travelled holdall and paying off his landlord.

  The following morning, he was on the first train heading west. The initial part of his journey passed along the same route as had his trip out west, six years before. But this time, after Detroit, he headed west-northwest to Chicago and then on to St. Paul. From there it was a relatively short hop, proceeding due north through Minnesota until crossing the Canadian border, and shortly thereafter arriving at Winnipeg.

  Sitting in the second class carriage, as it clickety-clacked and swayed its way across Ontario, he was completely absorbed as he read the follow-up stories concerning the new railway. Apparently, once built, the new line would make it possible to get on a train in Halifax, on the east coast of Canada, and not get off again until reaching Vancouver, over three thousand miles away. Along the way, stops would be made at all major towns and cities, with branch lines radiating out from them in all directions. The figures quoted concerning the miles of track, tonnage of supplies and manpower required were astounding. Could this really be achieved, he wondered? And if so, how long would it take to accomplish?

  The C.P.R.’s main competition was the Grand Trunk Railroad, who had spent years trying to dissuade the Canadian Government and various other financial backers, from investing in a new railway company. Well, they had lost. But there was no doubt, they were doing all within their means to try to disrupt the all-Canadian railway. Almost every other article in the ne
wspaper claimed proof of the dirty tricks uncovered, followed by denials and counter-claims.

  Eventually, Cameron’s eyes began to tire. Neatly folding the paper, he tucked it away, determined to complete it later in the trip. Staring out the window at the bleak, white landscape, his mind wandered as he tried to imagine what life might have in store for him. Was he finally about to see the real Canada? The country he’d previously been warned was wild and full of savages, with bandits behind every rock. Somehow he doubted it, and from the little he’d read about the prairies, the actual building of the track should be much easier than what they’d had to deal with in Scotland. Finally, his eyes began to droop and he fell into a shallow sleep; and as the day turned to night, the train sped ever westwards towards his destiny.

  Following an overnight stop in Chicago, and another change of trains in St. Paul, Cameron finally boarded the train which was to take him on the last leg to Winnipeg. The service from St. Paul to Winnipeg had been running for two years. But by the looks of what he could see when he boarded, this railway’s main concern was hauling freight, because there were only two passenger carriages available at the end of a long line of ten freight wagons. As it turned out, he had been wise to board early. By departure time, not only were all the seats occupied, but the aisles were fully taken up with men and their belongings. Again the seats were somewhat unforgiving, but were now looked on with envy by late-comers, who would be spending the rest of their journey on the floor.